


The (Attempted) Sacking of A.Z. Fell & Co., Part II

by Pie (potteresque_ire)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a Tease (Good Omens), Burglary, Comedy, Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Fluff, Good Omens 30th Anniversary, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Reference to improper disinfectant use for a certain plague, Roleplaying shenanigans, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Thirsty Crowley (Good Omens), Tube sock shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23977588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potteresque_ire/pseuds/Pie
Summary: Given the rumoured spoils from The (Attempted) Sacking of A.Z. Fell & Co., Part I, it's only logical for a wily burglar to want to try his luck. Not that the burglar wants cakes; he's far more interested in the someone who makes and eats the cakes (and yes, right, of course, owns the cash box. It's a f-ing burglary.) Lockdown rules aren't broken if nobody, at all, would call a burglary socialising, right? Especially if the burglar's a snake who talks with placards because he couldn't find the right masks for unhinged jaws?Written for Good Omens 30th anniversary, based on the videoGood Omens Lockdownreleased on 2020/05/01. This is my first Good Omens fic -- the first one I'm posting anyway! -- and it's all Crowley's fault. Specifically, the fault of this (now famous) thing he said:You know I could hunker down at your place, slither over and watch you eat cake? I could bring a bottle of- a case of- something- drinkable?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 41





	The (Attempted) Sacking of A.Z. Fell & Co., Part II

**Author's Note:**

> 1) For those who’re too young (or ate too healthy) to remember Hamburglar, he was a character from McDonaldland, a fantasy world used for marketing the fast food chain between the 1970s to 1990s: https://mcdonalds.fandom.com/wiki/Hamburglar. He was a hamburger thief, as his name (and attire) implies, and if he doesn't look like the diabolical creation of one wily old serpent, I don't know what is.
> 
> 2) The disinfectant label is based on the remarks re: COVID-19 made by a certain world leader, who shall not be named here to protect the ignorant. For those who's been fortunately spared of the second-hand embarrassment, you can read about it [here](https://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/apr/24/trump-disinfectant-bleach-sarcastic). Alcohol was one of the referenced disinfectants, although fend-off-the-plague-disinfectants have a much higher concentration of alcohol than the bottle brought to A.Z. Fell & Co.. Please, never drink or inject disinfectants! NEVER YIELD TO THAT TEMPTATION!!

A.Z. Fell & Co. had its second break-in in a week. No beings, occult or ethereal or otherwise, was to blame for that. Rumours had abounded about the vast rewards awaiting those who dared to sack the shop.

Attempt to sack, anyway.

Oh, the rewards were more than the cash box. The rumours had confirmed, too, that the bookshop had even less customers than usual (How? Negative people?). The rewards awaiting were far sweeter, far more filing, far more ... spectacular.

The burglar of The Sacking, Part II was more into spectacles than the sweets and the filling. He was transcendentally professional, donning the black-and-white-striped attire in honour of the thieving tradition of human people. A face mask too, a respect paid not only to the tradition but NHS guidelines. Plus a big money bag, the kind with a big dollar sign drawn upon the canvas to signal intent. The bag was loaded with, among other things, a bottle of drinkable (not a case yet, better not get ahead of ourselves) because burglary was thirsty business and the thirst of this one burglar was also particularly, (un)fortunately undeniable.

The burglar was caught red-handed (-bellied), of course. Rather curiously, Mr Fell, the namesake of the bookshop, had been baking a Kirschtorte in the middle of the night. His cash box had been transported to the kitchen for safekeeping, used as a stand for his bowl of miracled, brandied cherries.

It was almost as if the crime had been expected.

Almost.

“Wily old serpent,” admonished Mr Fell as he picked up the burglar by the neck, his plump, floured hands smelling of chocolate and butter. His eyes narrowed at the burglar's own, peeking out from the cut holes of the black face mask and extra golden, probably, out of sheer pride — they were rarely the showcased features in the eyes-nose-cheeks area (sunglasses with a mask, the burglar had decided, was a bit much). “I should’ve known there’s no rest for the wicked," Mr Fell continued with a frown, a shake of head. "A theft, of all things! During a lockdown, of all times!”

The burglar was, indeed, a wily serpent (and his black-and-white-striped attire a tube sock, now please shut up and mind your own business). _Old_ , meanwhile, was really a state of mind; Mr Fell was no judge of that and so the burglar protested, tried to wiggle himself free. Half-heartedly, because cool criminals never wiggled.

(On second thought, James Bond did wiggle.)

(Quite a bit. In bed.)

More importantly, because the burglar was presenting Mr Fell a placard from his money bag. He had a few of those.

“Give me the cash box,” placard-number-one said. “I’m burglar-ing.”

“Burglarizing,” Mr Fell corrected, not missing a beat and while not gay like a nitrous-oxide monkey, still suspiciously gay for a ... burglaree. A smile lurked somewhere behind the dusting of flour on his cheeks. A lightness threatened to lift his need-a-trim curls into fluffiness.

Couldn’t blame him. Even the burglar had to admit the kitchen smelled good.

(Not "heavenly". Never "heavenly". "Heavenly" smells like a chicken coop - what do you expect with all the uncooked wings fluttering about?)

“You can talk as a snake," said Mr Fell, taking note of the silence of his burglar. "Why don’t you—?” So Mr Fell was not about to spare the burglar from the famed verbal smiting he'd made in The Sacking, Part I. He'd show no mercy in the wrathy interrogation to follow, of that the burglar was certain, if not for the oven announcing its job well done with a _ding!_ The _ding!_ , and Mr Fell's hot anticipation of it (evidenced by his giddy _Oh, it's ready!_ ), could've explained why he'd yet to display the fear of a victim. It could also explain why the burglar would soon find himself inside the bowl of cherries on the cash box, the latter of which, judging from how much it'd shifted, was very light indeed. The manner of which the burglar was no less disconcerting: it wasn't so much I-shall-fling-you-to-a-scaly-death than have-a-snack-while-you-wait-if-you-want.

But the burglar would still answer Mr Fell's interrogation, the one about why he wasn't talking as a snake. He'd still answer because cool criminals always answered—with deep, philosophical truths, astute observations about the state of this world. Yes, the burglar got a placard ready for that too. “Loose jaw, long tongue,” this placard said. “Tried to find a mask I can talk in without spewing droplets. No luck.”

Mr Fell was decorating the freshly baked torte with his drunk cherries. The burglar had slithered out of his way, hoarding the one cherry whose surface was already alternately rough and glossy, from snaky nibbles and snakier licks.

Cherries, like most human edibles, were more palatable with alcohol ...

No, not alcohol, the burglar reprimanded himself quietly for even _thinking_ about the word tonight. Tonight, the right word for _alcohol_ was _disinfectant_. Smuggled into the bookshop as the drinkable not only to quench the burglar's thirst (and make the point that serpents were evil and immune to human poisons); it was also to lower Mr Fell’s guard, ensure the crime would go smoothly. As it'd go diabolically.

 _Very_ diabolically.

“Plus,” the placard admitted unhelpfully then, just as the burglar was feeling rather cool. James-Bondy. “I'm going for the Hamburglar look.”

"Hamburglar?" Mr Fell looked up, perplexed for once.

Another placard materialised (say what you want about the burglar, but he was prepared)(…and bored out of his wits in his flat)(…and really kinda missing someone enough to imagine the whole conversation)(...and imagined it hard enough that some of its lines were coming true). “* Sigh *” — yes, that was how this placard started — “Think of Hamburglar as Zorro. McCulley's Zorro. Designed by one occult and dashing entity ... designed the Hamburglar not Zorro ... if you recall. Tempted loads of innocent children at that fast food place into coveting.”

“Ah,” Mr Fell replied, enlightened. As if anyone would concur that dressing in Hamburglar-Zorro while attempting burglary was perfectly reasonable. While being a snake. While a plague was in full swing and the Hamburglar-Zorro mask was protecting the wrong half of the wearer's face. All during a lockdown, in which not a single restaurant or café within the walkable, Bentley-able distance of A.Z. Fell & Co. was open.

Either that, or the enlightenment came about because the removed placards had revealed the bottle of drinkable inside the money bag. “May I?” Mr Fell had reached in already when he asked, before the burglar could present a placard with his answer (which didn't exist. The burglar's imagination had dictated that Mr Fell would be too excited to wait). The fancy label of the drinkable had been tempered with. Graffitied. “Disinfectant,” it now said, in a _tempting_ , formal round hand a world away from the wild scrawls seen on the placards. “Inject to fend off the plague!” _Inject_ was underlined with a squiggly, no, _artistic_ wave of ink. The next line turned into a sans-serif, government's-warning hand, the kind that shouted RULES! MUST BE OBEYED! with racing neon lights: “This label is not sarcastic”.

Mr Fell stared at the absolutely-not-sarcastic-and-absolutely-wily temptation, bespoke-tailored for rules-abiding ... temptees with a weakness of disinfectants. The burglar took the time to drag a set of silverware and a tumbler to his end of the table. Mr Fell, apparently abysmal at the maths, had retrieved two sets of these things from his cabinet and it was only reasonable, if not suitably fiendish, for the burglar to covet his share.

It didn't take long for a look of epiphany to cross Mr Fell’s face. The inspiration came, perhaps — and very likely — from the amber liquid sloshing behind the label against its glass walls. “To thwart your wile, then ...” Mr Fell spoke belatedly of his newly-gained insight; he spoke thoughtfully, too, addressing more to the bottle than the being who'd dragged it through half of Soho to his presence. “To put an end to the devilish work of the occult, I shall have to ..." He heaved in a deep breath, his bowtie giving a small flutter while his face took on the look of a solemn vow, the gravity of a soldier about to go on a suicide mission. "I shall have to drink this disinfectant, before you'll ejaculate in me —”

CRASH.

The fork the burglar was carrying clattered on the floor.

 _E-Ja-Cu-Late._ Did Mr Fell say that? Did he really, really say that?

But Mr Fell's words were always clear as chimes. _E-Ja-Cu-Late._ Each syllable had rung like church bells. Those things that gave angels wings, a daft American film had once said and as a result, got the burglar sent to America to investigate, only to find out the local bells only gave humans tacos. 

_E-Ja-Cu-Late._ The soul of the fork didn't as much grow wings but stabbed Hell in its toes.

(Served it right.)

The proper use of tail for fork gripping wasn't the only faculty the burglar had lost. His every organ had been rendered useless for every task God had possibly created them for. That mushy thing in his skull, for example; was it supposed to do stuff? What was it? Think? Remember? Make appropriate sentences?

_Pffft._

And so, the burglar forgot about his lack of a proper droplet-transmission-thwarting mouth-cover. And so, he _E-Ja-Cu-Lated_ in Human (the language; not the being) despite having all his placards —

“Inject, Angel! For Heaven’s—Hell's—UGH—for whatever’s sake! Inject!”

Silence.

More silence.

Still, for a being who'd just heard Human from a snake, Mr Fell was remarkably unfazed. He was more unfazed than remarkably unfazed, in fact, considering the burglar had also let slip an endearment, _Angel._

Now, it was apparent Mr Fell took an instant liking to that. The endearment, specifically. Not only did he like it, he instantly adopted it in his ways. He surveyed his kitchen with a flair that could only be described as _holier-than-thou,_ his soft chin raised just infuriatingly so; his gaze, blue as Eden's sky before its first thunder, moved measuredly, majestically, from one damage to the next. The dropped fork. The plate on the table that’d tipped. The burglar and cherry half-spilled from the plate, and the the quarter-tied tongue of the burglar who'd just _E-Ja-Cu-La-Ted_ some rather inappropriate language. 

That was all before a tiny twitch, no, no, a _smirk_ , that’s what it was, no mistake about it, tugged the corners of Mr Fell's lips.

“Inject, of course. Inject.” But the rest of Mr Fell concurred again — sweetly, politely, and oh-dear-Satan-please-help-a-serpent, coyly above all, like a lone, brandied cherry sitting on top of a mile-high chocolate cake. That look, that voice, that _everything_ could've have fooled anyone that Mr Fell was just another retiree, a boring scholar, a stuffy, absentminded professor. The kind of being who'd think an aubergine emoji meant an aubergine, the kind who'd only give out As to students if and only if they could quote his favourite book.

( _”He was overcome by sleep; and as Paul continued speaking, he fell down from the third story and was taken up dead.” — Acts 20:9_ )

“What other unholy words could I possibly have spoken?” He could've fooled the burglar too if he didn't proceed to ask, his _unholy_ emphasised, his gaze almost doe-like with innocence ...

...while his tone, from that chime-y, church-bell-y voice, lowered to something far more _Schwarzwäld_ than _Kirsche_.

By then, the poor quarter-tied tongue of the burglar could’ve won a scouting knot award. The merciless nature of Mr Fell revealed itself then, flaunted its Guardian-of-the-Eastern-Gate slaying chops and the hands that performed them, hands miracled clean for no conceivable purposes other than to display just how buttery-smooth and chocolately-sweet and risen-dough-plump-and-flawless they already were, even without the cooking stuff stuck on them. The deft fingers gave the disinfectant bottle a long, loving stroke, from its fat base along its slender neck to the crown of the glass with its lightly bulging rim. He did it once more for good measure and, with a sudden, powerful _pop_ , thrusted the very frustrated, very pent-up cork into the air. Mr Fell sniffed the amber liquid that was now free to flow, his delicate nose giving it a playful twitch while his eyes threw a lazy, half-lidded, _post-orgasmic_ glance at the burglar. A little smile appeared on the lips below, more smug than anything, any being ethereal or occult, had any right to be.

 _Ngk_. The burglar had been _played_.

The rest of the night has gone as well as this exchange. Mr Fell has enjoyed his cake with the disinfectant, smokey and as finely aged as one would expect from its year. The burglar, meanwhile, has enjoyed — no, wait, he's _endured, suffered greatly_ and _painfully_ — coiling up on his righted plate, holding on to his precious cherry while watching the spectacle of his burglaree eat. No social distancing rules have been compromised, Mr Fell announced upon taking his seat. For one, who would call such a heinous crime socialising? For two, what's distancing to a creature who can social distance his head and half of his body at will? And right now, indeed, that long, long tail of said body is hidden in the shadows, where no angels or demons or God or Satan or the NHS can see; it has curled around one delicate ankle under the table and is stroking the soft, soft skin under the sock because … well, because Mr Fell, this dangerous, cake-baking, book-and-cash-box-hoarding NERD, needs to be chained in place while the burglar brings The Sacking to fruition. The cash box isn't satisfying enough for a loot. The burglar must ransack, covet everything his money bag can devour. In a bit. After the tip of his tail gets a lick on Mr Fell’s calf, maybe. A tiny, teeny lick, if Mr Fell is amenable to that. If the width of the leg hole of Mr Fell’s trousers is amenable to that. Or the burglar can do the ransacking, break God's whatever-number commandment tomorrow night. Angel’s food cake's on the menu, mentioned Mr Fell and at this moment, the burglar is very, very much into the idea of any association between food and angels. He dips his tongue into his tumbler of disinfectant again — burglar's thirst is very, _very_ real — the tumbler under which still lies his last placard explaining, at length with the proper pie charts and tiny fonts with its tinier square brackets for references, that while owners have transmitted the plague to their pets, there has yet to be instances of pets transmitting the plague back to their owners.

“Pets, huh?” That is all Mr Fell has commented about the PSA, a breathy ask with an upward glance from under those ridiculous eyelashes. The burglar had only prepared that placard as an act of courtesy, to assure his victim that while he’d be light on cash and heavy on disinfectants after the ordeal, catching the plague from a serpent will not be a concern. And what paltry reward has the burglar received for his _niceness_? A breathy _Pets, huh?_ , plus multiple ... sightings of a shiny, drunk cherry finding its way into Mr Fell’s mouth; of Mr Fell’s lips, red and plump as the cherry, following the fruit’s swollen curve and opening just enough to show a hint of his teeth, the pink tip of his tongue. The small, wet smacks as Mr Fell closes his mouth, as he purses his lips and…

Like this. Like what he's doing now. Oh oh oh he's biting down. The burglar can almost hear the cherry break, the squirt of cherry juice from the broken-in flesh —

BASTARD.

That’s it. This is why A.Z. Fell & Co, The Bookshop from Hell — not that there’re bookshops, or books, or shops, in Hell — deserves a sacking from a pet, no no no, from a _burglar_ , dammit, every night. The burglar, specifically the one sent to this world six thousand years ago to make trouble, will make sure of that. He’s got lots of placards at home and even more markers. And tube socks. And more importantly, fend-off-the-plague-injectable disinfectants from every year dating back at least a century, from every wine country of the present and the past. The Bastard (TM) Mr Fell deserves to have his cash box (sock cuff) forcibly removed (lowered) from his kitchen (ankle) from this very second on, and one day, when this stupid plague is over and this stupid lockdown a done thing, the burglar will have his _real_ angel's-food-without-that-extra-apostrophe-s, laden with every blasted cherries oh-so-daintily popped in that mouth across the table…

He’ll set his alarm for July — _nuh-uh_ , make that June — to have it done.


End file.
